


tear apart your demise

by overlying



Series: end to start [2]
Category: Akudama Drive (Anime)
Genre: Bloodplay, Fluff, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Fixation, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28715817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overlying/pseuds/overlying
Summary: “I wanna kill you, but you make it sodifficult.”(courier indulges his boyfriend.)
Relationships: Courier/Cutthroat (Akudama Drive)
Series: end to start [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100603
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	tear apart your demise

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday, satsujinki!!! your birthday is so eerily close to mine. i love you lots <3

For how quiet and fast Cutthroat can move, Courier has a lifetime’s worth of sleeping lightly with a weapon within reach. The sheets rustle, startling him awake, and his eyes open to amethyst ones staring right back at him, twisted into something indescribable. 

In the bare dregs of moonlight, filtering through the tiny, cracked window on the right side of the room, he seems ethereal—wrapped in pure white, eyes almost glowing in the near-dark, he grips the handle of a knife between his fingers with enough force for his already pale skin to turn even paler. At the edge of Courier’s vision, the blade glints in the light, pressed reverently to the bare flesh of his throat. 

If it was anyone else, he might have slipped from underneath their body in moments, disarmed them, shot them twice before they could even turn. As it stands, he simply lies completely still, forcing his breaths to slow. 

Cutthroat seems not to blink at all. His eyes are blown wide with the sort of curiosity and excitement Courier recognizes. His lips curve into a pleased smile. His body hangs over him like a cage, and his knife dips with the bob of his throat as Courier swallows. 

He stares back up, still but not docile, a solitary rock amongst the crashing waves of blood. He wonders what the other sees in the red irises of his own eyes. What drives him to hold a blade to the body attached to them, just so. The grip is so precise that only the coldness of the metal slices into his skin and not the metal itself. It dares him to speak, to run, and he refuses each challenge.

Belatedly, he feels that his feet are cold, the blanket inevitably shoved to the side when Cutthroat had climbed on top of him.

The eyes above him lose just a little of their excited glint, and a sigh fills the quiet of the room.

“I wanna kill you, but you make it so _difficult.”_

Courier reaches up to gently pry the knife from his hands, meeting no resistance.

“I keep thinking, how pretty you would bloom, maybe if I cut your eyes out and kept them, but, but, then you would be gone, and there wouldn’t be any spark to them at all.”

He sets the blade carefully on the bedside table, never once averting his eyes. 

“It’s so frustrating…my angel, what do you think?”

“Most people value their own lives.”

Cutthroat frowns. “I want _you.”_

“And you’ll get me, if you settle down and go back to sleep.”

“I—” He blinks, as if for the first time realizing where he is, and decides to sink down right onto Courier’s body. 

The breath is knocked out of him as the full weight of the other settles onto his chest. He abruptly rolls them to the side, and they lie there, still.

“When you sleep,” Cutthroat whispers, “I can’t see you anymore.”

Courier understands—has gotten used to understanding for a long time now. Or rather, he accepts that he doesn’t, and lets Cutthroat stare at his eyes for as long as he wants, until his eyelids start to droop, until they fall closed in peaceful sleep.

Only then does Courier close his own and drift off himself.

* * *

After his last delivery of the day, he finds himself unconsciously speeding up. The neon lights of the city blur past him, and as he imagines the quiet of the safe house, the person that waits for him there, the bright, flashing movements seem suffocating. Every time he goes out, he wonders, will this be the time he returns to nothing? Or will this be the time he returns to the walls stained with blood?

The answer, this time, is neither.

He rounds a corner and immediately slams on the brakes, skidding to a stop. The bike nearly misses sliding straight through a pool of blood—and over a clearly fresh corpse. 

It’s a smaller road, mostly empty near the outskirts, though he hears a scream and then the quick footsteps of someone running away. Five dead, no, six, counting the one lying in front of him, have been arranged carefully in a line across, blocking it off. 

“Oh, there you are!”

A flash of white, and then from behind him, arms wrap around his middle, chin settling onto his shoulder. 

Courier sighs and drives quickly up onto the sidewalk and around the bodies, hoping that no one’s contacted the authorities yet. Or recognized either of them, together. He zips through the backstreets, taking random turns until he feels sure enough that they won’t be followed. Not that the two of them couldn’t fight off a good number of the police, but he rather liked this safe house. 

At a good distance away from the city, he asks, “Why were you out there?”

“Missed you. I knew you were gonna come through there.” 

“That’s not the only reason.”

Cutthroat hums and kisses his cheek. Courier exhales deeply and resolves to press him when they’re not on a moving vehicle. 

He parks in the usual spot. Cutthroat jumps off and sprints to the door like an overexcited child. Courier walks at a normal pace, noticing that his jacket has now been stained with blood. Ah.

“Wash your hands,” he says, opening the door and turning the light on. For good measure, he takes Cutthroat’s arm and drags him to the kitchen sink, turning on the water.

“I can do this myself, you know,” he whines. Courier pushes the sleeves of Cutthroat’s stained coat up and shoves his hands under the water. The water going down the drain is a deep, deep, red, and he knows without checking that Cutthroat’s attention is entirely on it. 

It takes a few minutes—scrubbing incessantly between his fingers, digging under his nails. The hands in his are pliant. Cutthroat is surprisingly quiet under the rush of the water.

Courier rinses his own hands and dries them both, then peels his jacket off. “Coat,” he says. 

Obediently, Cutthroat gives it to him. The shirt is a little stained, too, but it looks dry enough. He goes to throw both in the bath, and comes back to the main room to find Cutthroat with his shirt in his hands, staring at a small cut on his hip.

Someone must have fought back. Something was _really_ off.

Courier clicks his tongue and keeps walking to grab the first aid kit. “Sit down,” he calls. 

Cutthroat sits on the couch. He kneels and wipes the cut clean of dried blood, feeling the other’s gaze burning into him. 

“Why were you out there?”

“Wanted to see you.” 

“And?”

“I missed it,” he almost whispers.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” 

“It’s scary,” he breathes. Courier pauses in applying antibiotic to look up at his expression. 

The only light is in the kitchen behind them, dim enough so that it doesn’t show in the windows. Cutthroat’s eyes shine with something unsettling.

“What’s scary?”

“It doesn’t feel the same.” He sighs like a weight has been lifted, sinking back into the couch.

“What about me?”

“What about you, angel?”

Courier finishes wrapping the bandage and says, very quietly, “Will it feel better if it’s me?”

 _"Oh."_ Cutthroat exhales deeply, digging his fingers into the seat. _"Oh."_

“Come on.” He stands up, picking up the kit and the bloodstained shirt. “You’re gonna be cold.”

Cutthroat follows him to the bed, breathing hard, shivering slightly. He throws the shirt in the bath, too, and pushes a sweater into Cutthroat’s hands. It’s a coincidence, that they seem to be the exact same size. The sight of Cutthroat wearing something of his own, something not white, makes his chest clench weirdly. 

“Now?” Cutthroat asks, sitting back on the mattress. 

“You get one shot,” he says, and Cutthroat immediately leaps to grab the knife in the bedside drawer. He pulls his shirt over his head and lies on the mattress himself, wondering if he’ll regret everything he’s ever done in a moment.

Cutthroat kneels next to him, hovering over him. The knife floats in and out of the corner of his vision.

“Remember, I still need to be able to work tomorrow.” 

“Are you scared?” Cutthroat smiles, presses the blade flat against his stomach. 

“I’ve had worse— _nngh._ ” He hisses, gritting his teeth as the knife goes into his right hip, quick and shallow. His breaths come out shaky and his vision blurs a little, but everything’s fine. Everything’s fine, and Cutthroat is licking blood off the edge of the blade with no particular care for its sharpness. 

“We match,” Cutthroat says, swiping his finger across the cut. Courier inhales sharply. “So pretty…”

He leans over and licks right across, swallowing the flowing blood, drawing another gasp from Courier’s mouth. “Mine,” he declares, looking at Courier through his long white eyelashes, “all of your red is mine.” 

A horrible, horrible thought settles in Courier’s head. That he wouldn’t mind at all, if he lay bleeding out on the bedsheets just to be devoured whole. The attention is disgustingly intoxicating, sinking into the part where his skin lies open to be claimed. 

He breathes out and allows himself a small smile. The expression on Cutthroat’s face is familiar. The satisfaction, the cheerful happiness, it washes over him, too, makes his skin burn pleasurably under the soft pink of Cutthroat’s tongue. His nails dig into his palms and his whole body tenses and relaxes, tenses and relaxes, screaming at him to get away, to push back into the touch.

Cutthroat licks his lips and swallows. “Just one?” He tilts his head to the side, pouting, eyes downcast. 

_God._ Courier throws his gaze to the ceiling before he does something he’s _really_ going to regret. “One. If you’re good, you can get two next time.”

“Next time?” Cutthroat brightens up abruptly.

“Only if you don’t go out like that again.”

“Hmm…were you jealous?” 

“...What?”

“You want me to use my knife on only you?” He giggles, pressing his thumb along the cut. 

Courier bites his lip to keep from making a noise. “Most people don’t want to be stabbed.”

“Don’t worry,” Cutthroat says, tracing the outline of the wound, “I’ll only kill you, my angel.”

Courier hates that those words make him shudder, but they do, and maybe it doesn’t matter after all. He’s...doing the world a favor, if less people happen to die, right? 

“Hey.” The other’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “Can I suck you off?”

“Put the knife away if you’re gonna do that. And pass me the antiseptic.”

Cutthroat giggles again, placing the knife on the table and handing him the bottle. “I won’t bite.” 

“Yeah, sure,” he breathes, shivering a little at the sting as he cleans himself. “Okay.” He undresses, just in case Cutthroat might get the urge to rip them, and the very moment he can, Cutthroat presses his tongue against the head of his cock.

He exhales slowly, letting the arousal rush through him as Cutthroat keeps giving little kitten licks to the tip, not quite taking it into his mouth. He does his best to keep his eyes open so that Cutthroat can watch them, staring up at him with curiosity multiplied by desire. 

“Pink,” Cutthroat murmurs against his flushed tip, now fully hard. He takes a long, slow lick from base to tip, and then another, and then another. 

It’s a wonder that Courier’s letting him anywhere near his dick. He keeps his sounds to harsh breathing and resists the urge to tell him to move faster. 

Everything’s off kilter. Usually he’s the one still fully clothed, knife in his hand, taking the lead. 

Cutthroat takes the tip into his mouth and sinks down, down, wet heat enveloping him, and it’s good, _oh,_ all the way to the base, still watching him for a reaction. There’s no gag reflex. Courier wants to clench his eyes shut and avoid that piercing, excited gaze, but he doesn’t.

Cutthroat wraps a hand around the base, stroking slowly as he goes back to licking the tip, pressing his tongue into the slit. It’s overwhelming, all of it, and still not quite enough at all. They both know Courier isn’t going to ask for it. 

“Angel,” he says, spit trailing from his lips. 

“I— _”_ Whatever Courier meant to say is lost in a moan as Cutthroat takes the opening to sink down onto his cock again. It’s a dirty trick and he looks way too satisfied with himself for it. 

Courier glares back, and he finally begins in earnest, each time making sure his lips brush his stomach before moving up so that just the head sits in his mouth and then back down again. Already too close to the edge, thighs tensing, nails digging into his palms—

A finger pushes deep into the length of the cut on his hip and a strangled cry escapes his mouth as he comes, harsh and drawn out and nearly sobbing as Cutthroat takes, and takes, and takes, swallowing him whole. He can’t help it—his eyes close of their own accord and wave after wave of pleasure shakes him, rearranges his body until the only thing he knows is bliss.

When he recovers, when his vision comes back into focus, Cutthroat is leaning over him, above him, pressing their lips together, the taste of blood and himself on his tongue. He pulls him closer, closer, backing up to move upright, half-distractedly reaching down for him—a hand wraps around his own and they move together, stroking, breathing hard into each other’s mouths and it’s perfect, perfect, can feel the moment Cutthroat tenses and gasps and then relaxes against him. 

For a while, just their breaths fill the room, tangled in each other’s embrace. Clarity tugs at his edges, though he doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t need to think about what all of it says about him. 

They’ve both said enough, pressed together like this.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twt [here](https://twitter.com/fataidawn)!


End file.
